


Mingling hands and mingling glances

by Kaiyo_no_Hime



Series: To the waters and the wild [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Gen, Jaskier suffers for the fandom, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, The golden trio of sex blood and violence, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 08:46:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27348367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiyo_no_Hime/pseuds/Kaiyo_no_Hime
Summary: With Jaskier returning to Oxenfurt unusually early after the events on the mountain, he is left with nothing to do but drink his way through his sorrows.  Until an old friend makes him an offer: spy for Redania.So Jaskier accepts, picking himself up and draping himself with a false identity to do what he can to strike against Nilfgaard without a blade in his hand or a white haired protector at his back.
Series: To the waters and the wild [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1997212
Comments: 39
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

Jaskier stared at Lena in shock as she made her proposal, half wondering to himself how he was going to be able to pick up his jaw from the table and drink the wine he had brought as a gift. And he was beginning to sorely regret only bringing the single bottle, as he desperately needed several strong drinks right now.

He should have brought something stronger than wine as well. He had thought they would get tipsy and have a fun little tumble under the sheets. Now he needed a stiffer drink and to remember to never attempt to lay any sort of finger on Lena again. Dear little Lena, several years behind him in course studies, practically the age of several of his older students.

He had thought her blissfully innocent to the world outside of academic pursuits and bardic competition. 

Lena continued to stare at him, and Jaskier realized that he had been silent far longer than was sane in a situation like this.

“Bwa,” he choked out.

He still couldn’t wrap his head around it. Darling, tiny, beautiful Lena. Was a spy. A Redanian spy. And, apparently, quite an accomplished one. Had she killed people? That’s what they all did in the novels, they snuck in, listened until they were caught, and then killed all in their way during their escape.

And usually had several romantic conquests along the way, though he was fairly certain that was dramatic exaggeration. He knew from personal experience that running away from imminent danger could be arousing, but there was rarely a guarantee that a partner fleeing with you had any inclination to such activities.

He wasn’t bitter about his lack of success on that lot at all.

“It’s generally pronounced ‘spy’,” Lena said with an impish grin.

She poured him a generous glass of wine and passed it over. Jaskier gulped at it greedily, and held it out for a refill. He still wasn’t sober enough for this. He should have brought something stronger than wine. There had been a good whiskey he had passed over.

He doubted it would have been strong enough.

“I know this is a bit of a shock to you,” she said, and Jaskier continued to sip at his second glass. “But times are what they are.”

“How did you even become a spy,” Jaskier asked. 

“Someone asked me,” Lena said. “But I’m not asking you to become a spy, you’d stand out too well. I’m just asking you to do some spying.”

“A little light spying, that’s all,” Jaskier snorted, finishing off his second glass and holding it out to be refilled.

A little light spying sounded about as comfortable as a little light beheading. And just as permanent. Nothing good could come of spying, and he knew he wouldn’t be any good at it. They’d all see him, in his beautiful silks, the instant he tried slinking through the shadows to put a knife in someone’s back.

“Think of it less as spying and more as gossiping,” Lena said. “You just attend the gala and keep your ears open. We just need to know what they’re saying, and who is going where if you manage to steer a conversation that way. But nothing more, nothing that we all haven’t done at parties before.”

Jaskier nodded, sipping at his glass. This was more doable. Gossip he knew how to manage. Gossip was something that thrived in courts, and something he had been raised understanding. Simply attending a party and keeping an ear out while enjoying himself was something he, too, enjoyed. There was always good food and wine at parties, not to mention beautiful ladies with their eyes on a night of enjoyment.

And, certainly, one could overhear a lot in bed. 

“I take it there’s more to you asking me than you’re letting on,” Jaskier said. 

Little Lena, a devious little spy. Even now she was trying to weave her webs.

“I’m known at the court where the gala is to be held,” Lena admitted. 

“Not fondly?”

“Rather too fondly, unfortunately,” Lena said, and Jaskier could almost make out the beginnings of a blush.

Ah, that would be an issue. You couldn’t hope to have someone walk in and listen in on all their dirty little Nilfgaardian secrets if all anyone would talk about was you. Well, you and whomever was fighting over you. Although it would make for an entertaining evening, Jaskier had rather enjoyed being the sparkling focus of such intrigue in the past, but he had never aimed to hear anything but his praise at times like that.

“And you’re also skilled enough with a blade to escape if there’s trouble.”

Jaskier coughed, choking on his wine at that. He was known for many things in life, and especially in Oxenfurt, but never a man who wielded a blade with skill. Well, not unless a lot of very heavy innuendo was laced into the conversation. He had done a fair share of that lacing as well, he was proud to say. Not that certain stoic assholes had ever noticed.

“I think perhaps you’ve had too much to drink,” Jaskier said, finally catching his breath and reaching for the wine bottle.

Clearly the woman must be drunk, the bottle was more than half gone. He rescued a liberal amount more into his glass, staring at her empty one.

“Jaskier, you spin more tales of your wild escapes from angered lovers than you do of your escapades with said angry lovers,” Lena said. “And we’ve all seen you do a few knife tricks drunk.”

She had him there. He had been tutored in the fine art of looking good with a sword from a young age, as befitting the heir to any aristocratic family. He had even put an end to several less than well meaning people, he didn’t always travel with Geralt after all. And bandits rarely chose to wait until said grumpy asshole was around to accost him.

But he didn’t make a habit of killing people, and he certainly tried to avoid circumstances that would put him at risk of needing to. Most angry husbands rarely brandished weapons with any form of intent, or ran fast enough, for him to truly be in danger. Half the time Jaskier rather thought they were more going through the motions than caring about the show they were putting on.

“I don’t want to kill anyone, Lena,” Jaskier said.

He may be drunk, but he still had a few wits about him.

“Then don’t do anything stupid. Just keep your ears out and listen,” Lena said, taking the wine bottle back from him and pouring herself a glass. “It’ll give you something to do rather than mope around Oxenfurt, bemoaning your broken heart.”

“I’m not bemoaning a broken heart,” Jaskier insisted.

“You’re drinking the rivers dry and fucking your way through the entire city. Which is quite the feat, I don’t think anyone has ever honestly exhausted Oxenfurt on whole before. But you’re close to it. So here’s your chance to go south and give us all time to rest and recuperate.”

Jaskier pouted, finishing his glass, but not arguing. He had been in quite the mood when he had returned to Oxenfurt. It was unheard of for him to return in the summer, autumn a coming dream, but he had been here. Early. With no classes to teach and no way to occupy his time.

Or his thoughts.

“I assume I have an invitation already,” Jaskier asked.

A few new pieces for his wardrobe would help. The lovely autumn colors of court fashions always looked good on him, he’d be able to have a little fun while keeping his ears open to be sure.

“A little known Redanian viscount, Alfons Fabien Konwinski,” Leta passed him the beautifully decorated invitation. “Attending alone. Your household is little known, your main trade lumber. You live beyond your means, and have a tendency to imbibe a little too much.”

“I nearly feel insulted,” Jaskier chuckled. “But easy enough. Oxenfurt education, hopes and dreams of now dead parents shattered by my frivolous ways. I’ve played the part before.

“Any specific names that I should keep my ears open to?”

“Anyone Nilfguardiaan. Troop movements, increase in trade, supply shipments, travel. Anything. We just need you to listen, we’ll fill in the gaps later,” Lena explained.

Jaskier nodded. Just be who he had been raised to be, rather than himself. Aristocracy of little acclaim, largely forgotten. Happy and drunk. Taking in and calculating every single step of the royal dance, and trying to figure out a way to toss everyone else out of his way so his toes could be the ones tread upon by those with power.

It was almost a shame he was doing this as a spy, his father would have been so proud to see him blossoming into everything he had run away to avoid becoming. But needs must, and even he had heard how far north Nilfgaard had come. How they burned their way across the land, seeking power and leaving death.

He couldn’t take up a sword and charge against them, but he could do this. He could help, in his fashionable way.

“When do I leave,” Jaskier asked.

“Two days. Be sober, your carriage will leave in the morning, at sunrise. Gold for needed expenses has already been transferred into your accounts,” Lena smiled, and Jaskier nodded.

He had never imagined her to be so devious. But Oxenfurt offered training in many fine occupations, including spycraft these days he was discovering. He almost felt insulted that they had never approached him before now.

“So, shall we celebrate my new vocation,” Jaskier grinned, waggling his eyebrows.

Lena snorted, pouring him the rest of the bottle.

“You know where the brothel is, don’t let me stop you.”

Jaskier sighed and admitted defeat, raising the glass in cheers to his old friend and downing it swiftly. He had two days to sort things out, and first he needed to sleep off his wine. Alone, apparently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: I'm going to be a spy!?
> 
> Me: yes, you're going to be a spy
> 
> Jaskier: OMG, this is amazing, I'm going to be a spy!
> 
> *Jaskier runs around drunkenly singing his personal spy theme song*
> 
> Me: try not to die!
> 
> Jaskier: don't be preposterous, spies don't die. They're just cool
> 
> Me: pain, my friend. There will be pain
> 
> Jaskier: Doesn't matter, I'm a spy!
> 
> *Jaskier continued to run around humming and stumbling*


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier looked out over the blazing beauty of the autumn gardens as the carriage approached the manor. Neither leaf nor petal out of place, the very image of wealth and power. Beautiful and cold, he could write laments that traced through these gardens, but never songs of joy. 

Joy required the wildness of the human heart set free, not a measured account of every bloom for every season.

He shifted his shoulders back, stretching them now while he was out of sight. Once he stepped foot from the carriage he would be on dangerous grounds, and it wouldn’t do for him to be sought out as not who he made himself out to be. No stretching, no humming, no lute.

He missed his lute the most, feeling almost naked approaching a party without it in hand. He hadn’t attended a gathering of any sort without one for decades now. But he wasn’t the entertainer this time around, he reminded himself. He was the entertained, there to munch on sweet treats and be greedy and flirtatious. Meet wealthy merchants and possibly make business connections, that was his supposed goal.

Jaskier was simply happy knowing that if he seemed to have no head for business and was more intent on food and flirting he wouldn’t be singled out. It wasn’t unusual for back country nobility to be seen as crass and uneducated.

This was to be a Nilfgaardian party, it would most likely go toward reinforcing their need to conquer the north. The zealots could chant their prayers about the White Flame all they wanted, but it took more than a religion to hold a country together. A hurried expansion with little thought to detail could only end in failure, and the strength of Nilfgaard already proved that they had cunning behind the eyes of the beast that bit so deep.

A cunning that Jaskier reminded himself that he needed to fear, no matter what his thoughts on members of the aristocracy. More than a few here would have knives as sharp as tongues, and he’d best remember that if he wished to leave as peacefully as he arrived.

The carriage clattered to a stop at the entrance, and Jaskier took in a breath and set his mask in place. Gone was the troubadour that had pranced his way across the continent, now was only Alfons Fabien Konwinski, a man with a name nearly too long for his stride. 

Jaskier let his fingers smooth over the silk cuffs of his sleeve. At least he had managed to put together an elegant, though tiny, wardrobe in time. But he was only to be here for three days, and everyone would already think lesser of him for being a mere viscount. They wouldn’t call the lack of a full wardrobe into question.

The door to the carriage opened and Jaskier stepped from it, ignoring the servants and strolling toward the entrance. He was supposed to think himself above them, he reminded himself. Manners were a thing he would only reserve for those of his station or higher.

Hopefully simply ignoring them would be the worst he would have to do. Maybe bribing a few for a change of clothes and directions to the nearest exit if worst came to worst. 

“This way if you please, sir,” a maid curtsied, and Jaskier just nodded at her, trying his best to appear bored.

He let his eyes roam the architecture as they made their way toward the guest rooms, servants carrying his trunk behind. The stone was sturdy, set well in place, and the windows were a thick glass that turned the outside world into a dancing dream of reflections. With the iron settings there was no way he would be able to launch himself through the panes unassisted, and there was no room to hide behind thick curtains.

Clearly an ancestor had been rather paranoid when the manor had been built. There was no defense against invasion, no secret wall or moat, but there was no place to truly hide. But at least the rugs that padded their steps were thick, and the air was already warm with the promise of many working fireplaces.

Paranoid, but comfortable.

All he need do is make sure his step never slipped, and he would enjoy the next few days before he escaped back to Lena with his report. Most likely the dull information that any peasant along the path would know, people often forgot that their workers had tongues that wagged freely and didn’t see a free mug of ale as a bribe.

He should mention that to Lena. It would be easier, and cheaper, than slipping someone into a gala to listen to the dull gossip of marriages and affairs that frequently dominated the conversation. 

There was already a steaming bath waiting for him in his rooms, and he let slip a smile. While the ride had not been overly chilly, there had been furs aplenty in the carriage, it had been long and the road had been difficult at times. His aching muscles would welcome the perfumed heat with pleasure.

“Dinner shall be sent up within the hour, sir,” the maid said, curtsying far deeper than required.

Jaskier gave her a brief nod, stilling himself from replying. A haughty viscount would barely deign to acknowledge a maid.

With the trunk placed and the door closed, Jaskier finally let his shoulders slip now that he was alone. He had been raised to be this, to wear fine silks and dance in fine halls, but he had forgotten how exhausting it was. He wanted to slip into the servants quarters and dine with them, trade stories and laughter. 

But that wasn’t him tonight. Or tomorrow, or the day after. He wasn’t Jaskier now, he was Alfons. Alfons the dreary. Alfons the dull. Alfons who was as big an ass as Valdo Marx and more.

That thought brought a smile to his face, and he began slipping out of his traveling clothes and preparing for that wonder of a steaming bath. A full tub, fragrant and waiting. It was truly a luxury he never had on the road.

Usually it was lukewarm by the time he was done scrubbing and caring for the scarred bottom of another.

The thought slipped from his mind with a frown as he sank into the water. Harder than he liked, most likely an underground reservoir with heavy minerals. Good for the soil, hell on the skin. But the orange oil and chamomile added to the water would help a little. He would need to be careful when washing his hair though, he didn’t want it brittle for the gala itself. He could deal with split ends later, when he was safe.

Lena could listen to him whine about the fine manor with the shit bathing water. She deserved it for not warning him. Though, if she had played here before as she claimed, then it was most likely the tub was communal if she had bathed here at all. 

He always enjoyed a good communal use of a bath. 

Jaskier made sure to be out of the water and fully dressed before the dinner tray was sent up. He was playing the part of an ass, but he refused to be that much of an ass. It would be easy enough to pretend to be too haughty to even glance toward a maid’s direction. Let them think he was above them rather than chasing them.

The game was only fun to him if both participants wanted to giggle and play into the chase. He could look for a dalliance with one of the nobility later. Silk sheets with knowledgeable whispers were what he was after.

A wary maid left the tray on his little table before quickly dipping into a curtsy and leaving, and that let Jaskier know far too much about whom he was to speak with tomorrow. Frightened servants, barely polite enough not to turn and run, and too frightened to leave more quickly than manners allowed, spelled out a poorly run house. There was pain caused here without consequence. 

What had Lena dragged him into? And why hadn’t she warned him? Surely she would have known conditions were this bad, there was no way everything would have changed in just a single year. But the rise of Nilfgaard was a surprise to many, and perhaps more had changed in that time than they all knew.

Perhaps the world was turning a little faster than they would like soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: they have this huge fancy house with these huge fancy luxuries, and the water is shit?
> 
> Me: it happens
> 
> Jaskier: no one thought to soften the water, or use a filter or something?
> 
> Me: I'm sure they have more important things to do
> 
> Jaskier: not more important that a proper bath they don't! And my hair, how will I woo beautiful people without my soft skin and downy hair!?
> 
> Me: ... I'm sure you'll manage somehow
> 
> *Jaskier swoons while complaining about hard water*


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier let himself float awake, still sleep drunk and unwilling to even consider rolling out from under the heavy blankets. He was a guest, he wasn’t expected to make his appearance until the gala that evening. As far as all were concerned, he was still abed sleeping off travels and wine.

He would have to forgo the wine this evening if he wanted to remember everything. A sipping glass, nothing more. Just something to hold and let him pretend to be the tipsy, rustic viscount they all would think he was. Let lips loosen and tongues wag.

He could toss back a few bottles once he was safely tucked away in his apartments back in Oxenfurt. Where there were no servants to haul steaming tubs to his room, and their certainly weren’t wonderful spreads of pastries, cheese, and cold meats, but they were safe. Mostly safe.

Hopefully no one would try to steal his lute. Although he wouldn’t put it past dear deprived Valdo to make a grab for it. His lute was certainly better than anything Valdo would ever be able to acquire. That sycophant would never dream of actually seeing the world, taking on adventures and living the rough life.

It always showed in a bard’s work that they lacked the experience to improve their music, he thought. That’s why he always told his students to take some time and see the world, have an adventure and do more than waste away in libraries between the yellowed pages of books. He wondered how many had taken him up on his words and ended up falling into the art of spycraft instead.

How many had little Lena converted over bottles of wine with sweet words?

Jaskier glanced out the window, the sun barely rising toward mid height. There was a small blaze on the hearth, obviously set by a servant while he had been drowsing. He should drag himself out from under blankets and at least attempt to make an appearance of not being a lazy lout.

But, on the other hand, he could simply grab a few pastries and burrow back under warm covers, and spend the day composing in his head. He had been intended to start a new song cycle, something that didn’t revolve about certain assholes and their adventures, but inspiration had escaped him as of late. 

If Nilfgaard kept up their northern creep, they would soon enough join battle against Cintra. A cycle about the fierce lioness, defending her home, would do well. But he rather found himself displeased with the subject herself.

Calanthe was a fierce ruler, but not as gallant as several tried to paint her. She had slaughtered her way through the elves, stealing lands and killing children without a moments pause. She prided herself on being brash, and had very nearly brought destruction upon her kingdom at Pavetta’s engagement feast all those years before.

Valdo could content himself with washing a dirty history clean for a few pretty words and a very heavy coins, but he was loathe to do so. It was one thing to try to protect others through lies in songs, to keep the elves at the edge of the world from being hunted over the side to nothingness, but to forget genocide? 

He wouldn’t be able to. He had too much pride. And that’s all any great bard could claim, given all they would leave behind were their songs. Pride that they tried to do the right thing.

Jaskier munched on a raspberry scone, crumbs getting everywhere, and crossed any cycles dedicated to Calanthe off his list. Pavetta was dead, and though she had been lovely she had never really done anything worth singing about but die. He could dedicated a song to her, something lovely and sorrowful. Women would weep at that tale of love, but it would only be a single song.

Maybe a few pointing fun at Yennefer? Of course, then he would have to think about Geralt, and the risks of being turned into a frog. Or have her curse his trousers to always rip a seam. She could be a spiteful one, and he didn’t want to find out how far she could go. Or would go.

Jaskier groaned, flopping around uselessly in bed. Even with all the comforts of the world and he still couldn’t manage to think of anything. It was barely past midday yet, and he felt as if his mind was dribbling out his ears. He needed to do something until the dusky twilight began to dance over the gardens.

He sat up with a grin. He knew what he could sing about. It would be unusual to say the least, he had never heard of anything of the like being the inspiration for a cycle before. Several very descriptive books yes, but never put to verse. 

A thrilling life of a spy, defending their kingdom from an encroaching evil. He would have to give the character a love interest of course, something dramatic. Someone waiting for the character back home, clutching at kerchiefs and wondering if he would ever return again.

People loved a good drama. 

Jaskier giggled to himself, sitting up and trying to tie the rough strings of the stories together in his mind. Intrigue here, a necessary murder there. They wouldn’t be as catching as ‘Toss a coin’ to be sure, but it was something. After so long without inspiration anything was better than nothing.

They wouldn’t be as rooted in truth as his songs about Geralt, that’s true, but maybe he could persuade Leta to introduce him to other spies. He could use their stories as well, blending them in together. They would be at no risk, they wouldn’t be able to be tied to anything he sang, he made sure of it. 

Jaskier closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Inspiration after so long left barren was a thing of miracles and delight. He had half feared his career was over, that he would become nothing more than a footnote in some forgotten tome. But now, with more excitement and thrills racing across his mind, he could cling on a little longer.

He wasn’t old, he had just been tired. Even the best had to take a break from time to time, and this had been his. This luxury had been exactly what he needed. Soft silks, delicious foods, and the whisper of excitement. He still needed that daring to set his mind ablaze.

And he also needed another bath, he reminded himself. He needed to powder and comb himself to blend in, though he knew the servants would curse him for it. Two baths in two days was an insane luxury if there were no hot springs to be had. He could make do with a warm sponge bath, but it wouldn’t fit his image. He needed to prance the stage as a pampered ass, and bray in all his overwrought glory.

But, Jaskier glanced at the still half laden breakfast table, it could wait a few moments yet. He didn’t know when he might eat again if he needed to make a daring escape tonight. And, while he did still have coin in his pouch, it would be better to avoid being seen at all. He could survive a few hard nights making his way back home.

Hard nights were always easier with plentiful food, though. With a few quick, and well practiced, movements he had most of the pastries, cheeses, and meats tied up in the tablecloth, and carefully packed it away near the edge of his trunk. It would look suspicious to actually have a sack, but it would be easy to grab should he need it. And, if not, well, no good graduate of Oxenfurt ever let good food go to waste.

But Leta would have to bring the wine this time.

Jaskier rang the bell to summon the servants, still in his night clothes though it was high time to break for an afternoon nibble. If it was anywhere near as delicious as the breakfast, he could only image how amazing the food would be. And the wine, he regretted that he would be keeping himself to a single glass for sure.

He could enjoy himself, while letting his ears do the work, by dropping a few words to deride the lack of skill of Valdo. That should, at least, keep the pain of lack of drink at bay. Anything worthy of slandering that ass’ reputation. He was supposed to winter over at some court, and Jaskier could only smile in delight at the possibility of him losing that position.

A maid entered, a tray of soft breads, more cheese, more meats, and a flagon of ale balanced in her arms. Others must be ringing for their meals, then.

“A bath as well,” Jaskier drawled, feigning looking bored as he studied his fingers, not caring that he was half undressed in front of the blushing woman.

“As you wish, sir,” the maid curtsied, and Jaskier waited until the door was solidly shut before stuffing a roll in his mouth and quaffing the ale.

Good food was always a delight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: I'll sing songs to the heavens in my praise!
> 
> Me: that sounds a bit pretentious
> 
> Jaskier: it's not, it's historical
> 
> Me: ... you've lain in bed past noon and gotten crumbs in your sheets, that's hardly historic
> 
> Jaskier: I made plans to take a bath as well!
> 
> Me: will wonders never cease. /s


	4. Chapter 4

A few careful brushes of his fingers and Jaskier was pleased at how the wax had cemented his hair into place. He didn’t need to worry about stray strands making him looked ruffled tonight. Bards had ruffled hair and villainous good looks, the aristocracy was above that.

At least they were above cheap fashion and threadbare silks as well, Jaskier reassured himself, glancing at the suit he had laid out on the bed, the gorgeous peacock mask nestled gently on a pillow. He knew it was in bad taste, normally it was women who wore such plumage, but he simply couldn’t resist. The colors made his eyes pop, and matched the blues and greens of his suit perfectly. 

A touch overdone, a bit too much, and everything he was trying to present tonight: a man out of his depths, swimming with sharks.

He would be the butt of jokes for weeks to come, if not months, but he didn’t care. He was better than them, and he knew it. He had seen the world, walked its paths and drank sweet waters of mountains they had never heard of. He had seen the edge of the world and wept at the beauty and sorrow it held.

He had traveled with a witcher, and lived.

Jaskier held himself stiff at that last thought. He had traveled with a witcher, and been found wanting was more in tune with the truth that his thoughts. He had been tossed aside because, though he was better than a room full of vain, pompous assholes, he wasn’t good enough to continue strolling behind a man on a horse, composing daring ballads in his honor.

Well fuck him, Jaskier decided. He was good enough that Lena had come to him for help. He was good enough for friends, very old friends that he had known longer than certain white haired assholes, still depended on him. Friends who saw the coming war and were willing to risk everything to do something about it, rather than grunting and hiding their head in the sand.

And that made him better than the witcher he had traveled with, in his opinion.

He stared at the mask for a moment, and began humming to himself as he dressed. He had the moral high ground, and he was fashionably dressed for it, he reassured himself. These clothes had never been scrubbed with lye to remove the stench of rotting guts and dripping ichor, which really made them all the better. Lye ruined silks horribly.

The sun was beginning to set as Jaskier carefully tightened laces and began to set his mask in place. While he wasn’t exactly the most famous of bards in the land, most people rarely paid attention to the bard themselves and only barely noticed the music amongst the higher courts, he could never be too careful. He had put in enough appearances here and there that there was a small chance that he could be recognized as the White Wolf’s bard. Not that he had ever traveled this far south, but nobles liked to wine and dine with each other with disturbing frequency.

His eyes really should stand out and be recognized by any former lovers, but he would forgive them if they went without notice. The drink, he was sure, would be potent tonight, and cups had a way of turning the memory to a swimming thing quickly forgotten.

“I am puttering,” Jaskier said out loud, his fingers brushing against the mask as he sat before a cloudy mirror.

His voice was strong, but the room still sounded hollow none the less. He missed the grouchy growl that would have ignored his nerves and stormed out the door to face the night, sword or no. And, really, why should he have nerves? He had entertained at Pavetta’s engagement feast, as requested by Queen Calanthe herself! He was the very fountain of musical inspiration across the land!

He didn’t have nerves. His stomach was not weak. His knees did not tremble. He was here to nibble sweet treats and seduce even sweeter nobles, all while keeping an ear open for gossip. The only difference lay in the emptiness of his hands.

The drawing darkness was softly falling across the sky, and Jaskier decided it was high time he fell across the gala like the dramatic twit he was presenting himself as. He wasn’t ranked enough to be fashionably late, but he certainly could play dense enough to think he deserved to be.

* * *

Jaskier stuffed another chocolate covered marzipan filled cookie in his mouth. This was the ambrosia of the gods that he had been missing all his life, he had to figure out a way to steal the recipe and bring it to Oxenfurt, he knew of at least a dozen bakeries that could do justice by the dessert. And would pay top dollar for the ability to be the first to do so.

The group of men he had been wavering around were excitedly discussing, unfortunately, the latest news of dog breeding. Nothing remarkably interesting, though a few had dropped comments about the Emperor being interested in tracking animals, well trained, and sturdy. He wanted quiet hunting dogs, and Jaskier didn’t want to let his mind linger on that.

“How goes the dog breeding in Redania,” one of the men asked just as Jaskier finished off a third cookie and swore himself to no more. His youthful graces wouldn’t be able to handle it soon enough.

“We tend to look for more sturdy beasts, to chase off any that threaten the herds, rather than hunting animals I’m afraid,” Jaskier apologized. “The sport tends not to do well when a bear or a wyvern is as likely to appear as a bird or a deer.”

There were chuckles amongst the group at that, but no true laughter. They were being polite, and they thought him a fool. Everyone knew that a properly trained hound would warn a group off rather than make the attempt on anything more ferocious than a deer. 

“But our woods have had no issue, so perhaps the poor old hounds would rather the kitchen fire than the forest these days. A good crop this year,” Jaskier put out. “Though it’s a shame that Kerack isn’t looking to expand their fleets.”

And that caught the attention of several men. Wood was a dull, but valuable, commodity to discuss. But the news of Kerack, a well threaded falsehood, Kerack was never without a desire to increase their fleets, though often without the money to do so, that would pull interest. If Nilfgaard intended a never ending march northward, they would need to conquer the sea as well.

Though let them discover the anger of those that made their lives on that ocean was far deadlier than those that walked the land. 

“Have you spoken with Duke Emil of Plewa? He’s certainly been looking for a new supplier. The rest of us have poached the good ones, and Redanian forests are more fertile that the southern softwoods,” one of the more elderly gentlemen asked.

“If you could arrange for an introduction I would be most grateful, I would hate to see the harvest go to waste. We have some spectacular hard wood, nearly as good as iron, that would do wonders under certain usages.”

Eyes glinted. They were all desperate for wood. The war effort was hard underway, and Nilfgaard was in need of new supply lines to help support their greed. Lena was going to be ecstatic with the news once he brought it back to her, though he would have to mark down the names to see which areas were most involved.

The details would do a marching army no good, but he was sure Lena and her comrades did more than just stand around listening and stabbing people in the back. A few torched warehouses, the destruction of roads, they could all do more to delay supplies than a dead lord.

Dead lords could be replaced, quite easily as history taught. There was always a new one sitting in the balcony, waiting for their time.

“I’m sure we can arrange for several introductions,” another man said, clapping Jaskier on the back. “It would be a shame to come all this way and not make any new friends at all. Why, we’ll all be under the same banner soon enough.”

“How pleasant that will be, and much easier for trade,” Jaskier smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: I have wood. Well worked wood. Hard as iron.
> 
> *Jaskier waggles his eyebrows*
> 
> Jaskier: I could hammer a nail through a 2x4 with a few skillful swings of my wood!
> 
> Various aristocrats: ... wtf is a 2x4?
> 
> Jaskier: don't you mind, just admire the skill


	5. Chapter 5

As the evening began to drift on, Jaskier let his eyes begin to linger more heavily on some of the more beautiful members of the gala. His mind swam with the details easily acquired from greedy old men, and he needed a breath of fresh air. A smile of beauty, a glance of grace.

Anything to be away from the heady stench of his elders.

He made a few polite excuses, his wine glass quite empty, and made his way toward one of the many tables still covered in tasty little treats. No more of the cookies from earlier, it seems he was not alone in his love of those little bites, but he certainly found a few delicious little snacks here and there.

“You’ve certainly been the talk of the evening,” a woman said as Jaskier accepted a new glass of wine from a passing servant.

Jaskier turned with a smile, admiring the gentle fall of feathers from her mask. Clad all in white and silver, the little dove practically glowed in the candlelight. He must have been wrapped up in affairs more than he thought if she had managed to escape his notice. 

“Nothing but kind things I’m sure, my lovely little dove,” Jaskier said.

“Oh, only just of course,” the woman returned. “Though it’s a shame you haven’t the time to flutter closer, us little birds should flock together after all. You never know what the foxes intend.”

She stepped in closer, far closer than socially polite, and stroked gently at one of his own peacock feathers. Jaskier glanced around, but saw no angry men storming his way, though more than a few interested glances. Was it late enough that she was sure everyone was drunk enough for her to be this forward?

Was it late enough for him to let her be?

“I’ve never met anyone from Redania before,” she smiled, not stepping away. “I hear it’s an untamed wilderness ruled by golden eyed beasts.”

Jaskier bit back a snort at that. Redania an untamed anything was a laughable joke. The land had long since been brought to heel and tilled to serve. There was more threat of allergies than there were of beasts. And the very thought of witchers ruling it?

Geralt would have stormed away the instant anyone suggested it, and probably spend the night muttering to poor Roach about mad drunkards. 

Oh the odd stories that must circulate to the south. No odder than those of the exotic lands to the east he was sure, and they must have their tales of the green valleys of the west as well. He could write ballads about the interesting circular patterns strange tales that strangers sang of their lands across the unmastered sea in strange lands.

The little dove was clever, and very determined for a more interesting night than others were offering her he realized in surprise. While one hand was petting at his mask, stroking feathers as she eyed him suggestively, the other had started carefully, and ever so gently, tracing up the inside of his thigh.

Oh. Oh, he would definitely give the game away long before her in a few moments.

“We’ve long since tamed the beasts and brought them to heel,” Jaskier said, his breath hitching as her fingers tapped lightly high up his inner thigh.

Oh, not a meek little dove this one. Rich and splendid as a swan was she. A touch of tooth in her grin, she knew her business well, and Jaskier was content to let her to it. It was daring, this open, drunk as the revelers may be, but wonderful and scandalous. Jaskier himself would never had dared even at his most forward.

“I would love for you to show me how,” the woman grinned, leaning forward. “So I may practice for the courts journey north. It wouldn’t do to be unprepared.”

Oh yes. Yes, Jaskier smiled to himself, yes he could. He had collected enough information for Lena and her little group of spies for tonight, and it would be a sin against many gods to not give this woman what she wanted. Beautiful and inviting invitations such as hers very rarely fell into even his lap.

“There would be nothing astray with preening over a few feathers in a more private nest,” Jaskier said, kicking himself mentally.

His words were cursed to betray him every time he opened his mouth in front of a beautiful person. Bread in pants and swan necks, now a terrible line about a private nest? He was grateful he didn’t know a single person here, he would never live this down.

“I think I can find a little place for us,” she smiled, and Jaskier let her take him by the hand and gently lead him from the room.

This is a trap, he told himself. This had to be a trap. The woman had been too forward too immediately. No one would step up in the middle of such a high ranking crowd and start almost stroking the cock of a stranger through his pants! It was absurd! Even the lowest class of whores had more sense than that.

But yet here he was, quietly creeping after her, his hand still in hers, and they twisted down barely lit hallways, the sound of the party a distant dream behind them. It could not be a trap, she could simply view Redanian men as exotic and wish to see just how pleasing they could be in bed. He had never heard of a women notching the men of different countries on her bed, but more than a few men did.

She dragged him through a door, giggling as it shut behind them, and was on him in a moment. All fierce kisses and wandering hands, Jaskier barely had time to catch his breath before her hand was cupping him and teeth were biting at his lips.

He hadn’t realized birds were practically cannibalistic when they wanted a quick tumble between the sheets! 

“You, my dear,” Jaskier gasped, pulling back for a moment, his mask falling away from his face. “Are ravenous.”

She grinned, leading him into the room, through extravagant sitting rooms and to a truly luxurious bedroom. With a push Jaskier let himself fall back against the bed, collapsing onto the mound of soft blankets and letting himself sink on the goose feather mattress. He had been sleeping comfortably the past few nights, but this bed was truly heaven.

“I do enjoy a good feast,” she whispered, her fingers making quick work of his doublet.

Jaskier, never one to not help, began untying the soft ribbons of her bodice, mouthing at the top of her breasts as they began to come free from their stays. The woman mumbled something with a sigh, one hand in his hair, lips near his ear. Oh yes, this spy business was truly more fun than he had thought.

He pulled at her skirts, more up than off given the volume and ties. How he hated the stiff formality of court clothes at times! But he was a very, very well experienced bard, and he knew a few tricks. His fingers soft, his touches careful, and he quickly began to draw a few keening mewls from the woman.

Oh how wonderful she looked, face flushes, half undressed, her mask gone and forgotten, her hands on him. Yes, yes this was definitely worth the trouble of coming down here and listening to old men plot to overthrow a continent. He used his thumb to slide a gentle caress once more and she shuddered, her hand pressing over his own growing lust.

“You’re going to bring the fun to an end before you even fly free,” she said, looking down at him.

“Oh dove, I’ll having you flying free more than once tonight,” Jaskier assured her, fingers twisting another gasp out of her.

A few quick twists of her own fingers had him free from his pants, and Jaskier laughed as he brushed skirts away from his face as she straddled him. Oh, she was warm, and alive, and so beautiful, quivering there. He palmed a breast as she rode him. He truly appreciated the forwardness of court women at times, it was far more pleasurable to have a woman that knew what she wanted than some shy maiden who was shocked at the thought of fingers on her nipples.

She tightened around him and Jaskier was eternally glad that he had barely had any wine tonight. He did not want this to end after a quick, half dressed fumble. He wanted to trace across her curves and see her mewl in pleasure under him, naked and delightful. His fingers stroked against her twice more, and he came, riding into her pleasure, happy and exhausted.

She slid onto the bed next to him, skirts still hiked up around her thighs, and Jaskier nuzzled against her breasts, mouthing at a nipple. He was spent for now, but a few moments rest was alright. The slow pleasure between rounds was as erotic as the sex itself in his book.

“Normally men last a little longer,” she sighed, fingers lingering in his hair.

“I’m surprised they don’t all cum at once in the face of your beauty,” Jaskier replied, licking and teasing the nipple gently.

She moaned, pulling on his hair, and Jaskier grinned. Oh yes, this was going to be quite more entertaining than sulking in his rooms, alone.

The door to the rooms, unfortunately, interrupted his fun as they were opened rather suddenly, and Jaskier looked over at the intruder sleepily. He was about to offer for them to join, the bed was certainly large enough for a few others and he wasn’t against allowing a few more into their little party, when the words died on his lips.

“Your majesty,” the woman stuttered, her eyes wide.

Majesty? Jaskier was confused. This wasn’t a king, this was Duny. Urcheon of Erlenwald. Little Ciri’s father. And, last he remembered, quite thoroughly dead, along with his wife poor Pavetta. 

Jaskier rose on his elbows, the woman already dropping to the floor, her forehead pressed low as she groveled. Oh. Oh no. He had known these couldn’t be her rooms, but she had dragged him into a… Nilfgaard didn’t have kings. They had an emperor. And emperor that had started a war to conquer the north, and burn across the lands in his lust for his power.

“Guards,” the Emperor of Nilfgaard snapped, still glaring down at the two of them. “Take them to the lower waiting rooms.”

Jaskier bit his tongue against complaints as he was grabbed, still half dressed, and dragged from the room. Duny, Emperor of Nilfgaard, glaring after them as they were hauled away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: well, that went rather well if I must say so myself
> 
> Me: you were hauled off to the dungeons
> 
> Jaskier: not the first time, certainly not the last
> 
> Me: ... by order of the Nilfguuardian emperor
> 
> Jaskier: yes, well, that part is a bit new. But it'll be fiiiine
> 
> *Me points at tags*
> 
> Jaskier: ... fuck
> 
> Me: we've gotten past that part of the story
> 
> Jaskier: ... fuuuuuuuuck


	6. Chapter 6

Jaskier was impressed by the quality of the cell he had been chained in. He had been expecting a damp, rat infested stone room. Maybe an unearthly frigid chill of death lingering in the air, a constant reminder that he may never escape the confines to which he was doomed.

Instead, while it was dark due to the lack of any lit torches, the room was merely a bare stone storage room. That happened to have chain hooks attached to the wall. And it was cool, but it was the steady, bone numbing cold of an underground room rather than the afterlife.

At least, that’s what he told himself after he pulled his clothing tight around him and hoped that the sunrise would bring warmth with it. He wouldn’t see the sun, but he hoped to at least feel it. Given the lingering scent of onions and spices, he doubted it. He was near where they stored food for the winter, though, should he escape, at least he would be able to grab a few onions and a wheel of cheese before he made off into the forest.

That would be a grand tale to sing, of the spy bard and his wheel of cheese. How he had out tricked the emperor of Nilfgaard.

Jaskier shuddered at the memory of the anger on that face. That face, that he had seen covered in spines. How had he gotten here? Did Calanthe know that he had survived, and was emperor? That can’t have gone well with the queen, she had made her loathing of the southern country quite well known.

The door opened, light flooding in from the hallway, and Jaskier blinked, watching as the guards hauled the woman in, tears streaming down her face, and chained her to the wall across from him. Her hair was pulled loose from her elegant plaiting, but her dress seemed to be intact. No blood was visible, for that he was glad.

“It really was all just a misunderstanding,” Jaskier tried. “We thought the room was unoccupied, we never would have-”

The guard nearest to Jaskier simply reached out and punched him. Hard. Jaskier could feel the blow ringing through his toes, and could taste copper from where he had bit his lip. That, he knew from experience, was going to leave a mark. A very painful, very bothersome mark. At least nothing was broken.

“Who sent you,” the first guard sneered down at the woman. 

The woman quivered, shaking her head. 

The second guard reached out and punched Jaskier in the gut, and Jaskier groaned, sinking to his knees. That had been quite uncalled for. But it was certainly curious, why did they think she knew anything?

“Who sent you,” the man demanded again, slapping the woman and grabbing her hair and pulling hard. “For every pain, he’ll feel two.”

“Let’s not be hasty,” Jaskier suddenly yelped, glancing up at the second guard. “It really was just a minor indiscretion that led us to that room, we had no way of knowing-”

The second guard kicked Jaskier hard in the side, sending the man tumbling to the floor and gasping to catch his breath. There was a painful wheeze in his breathing, but his ribs weren’t broken. Just the air knocked out of him, and a new garden of bruises planted along his side. At this rate he would have to use the wheel of cheese to roll himself out, there would be no way for him to do so safely on his own.

The woman was crying now, snot and tears marring her lovely little face, but still she remained silent. Silent as the guard kicked him onto his back, and silent as the guard began to punch him, a heavy fist against his sides, his ribs groaning under the assault.

She remained silent and sobbing as Jaskier screamed, stars flashing before his eyes as breathing became a painful chore.

Just talk, he wanted to scream. Tell them, tell them everything. Just make the pain stop.

“Fucking squirrels,” the first guard spat, signaling for the second to stop.

Jaskier wheezed prayers to every god and goddess he could remember under his breath. The woman’s eyes were wide now, and even Jaskier could see her quivering. Fuck, how had he managed to find and fall into bed with the only other spy at that damn party?

He should have followed Geralt’s advice and kept it in his trousers.

He really hoped a beautiful woman wasn’t the death of him. He would never be able to live it down. Valdo Marx would turn his death into poorly tuned mockery, and he wouldn’t be able to be there to stop him. He should have left Lena notes on an epic should he not return. 

The first guard slammed her hard in the face, and Jaskier could hear the crunching of broken bone, and turned away as blood began to pour down the front of her dress. But she remained stead fast, simply glaring up at the man. Silent.

“Come on,” the first guard signaled at the second.

The second guard nodded, stomping hard on Jaskier’s leg, drawing another strangled scream from him, before they left the room in darkness. The sound of the bolt was heavy as Jaskier gasped for breath, stars still exploding across his vision. He was cold, hungry, thirsty, and in pain.

He shouldn’t be here. He should be drinking himself miserable in some pub back in Oxenfurt, lamenting about minor woes, and planning to travel north in his wanderings in the spring, away from the southern border and the growing sounds of battle.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said, her voice taking on a nasal quality. Jaskier could almost hear the taste of blood on her lips. 

“Sorry for the fuck or sorry for getting caught,” Jaskier asked, trying to sit up. His left leg howled in agony, not broken but something was pulling wrong.

Fuck.

“I didn’t mean to drag anyone into this,” she said, her voice hazy. “I just needed to see if the documents were there. And you were there, some strange northern lord-”

The woman began to cough, and Jaskier could hear the blood splatter against the stones.

And he knew the rest of what she had been about to say. There he was, a stranger of rank with no meaning. He held no meaning to the others, if he was caught doing anything suspicious they wouldn’t spare a moment to suspect anyone else. He would have died without anyone even noticing.

She had intended to fuck him to exhaustion and then leave him as the patsy while she stole documents from the emperor. He, at least, had only intended to get a little sweet talk out of her while in bed, he hadn’t planned on her dying!

“I don’t normally say this, I usually enjoy the excitement. But you, my dear, are a bit of a bitch,” Jaskier said, finally raising himself up to lean against the wall, his leg held before him.

There was no helping it now, there would be no amazing escape. No tumbling out of windows and running half dressed through the streets, no fiery eyed demon with a sword and a temper to step in and drag him off. No, just Jaskier, and anonymous northern lord, and a local terrorist. A beautiful one, but not one he would fuck again.

He regretted fucking her the first time now, he should have made polite apologies and slipped off to a cold bed. He could have sweated nervously about his escape during the entire carriage ride north, and been happy for it.

“I can’t tell them anything,” the woman said.

“Don’t worry, once they’re done with me they’ll happily play with you,” Jaskier said, wondering if he should try to lay down and rest.

Would his leg let him? It didn’t matter, he wanted to forget that he was here, and he doubted the guards had any plans to bring them pillows and blankets. Or food and water either. 

“I need to-”

“Silence is the little blessing that the deep night brings us,” Jaskier said, leaning over and wrapping his arms around himself. “So please, be quiet. You’ve done enough for one night.”

And, thankfully, she was quiet, and remained so as he slipped into a fitful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: she betrayed me!
> 
> Me: technically-
> 
> Jaskier: that fucking cunt!
> 
> Me: I mean, you never-
> 
> Jaskier: here I am, merely plotting to innocently fuck some information out of her, something she offered in the first place might I add, and now people are hitting me!
> 
> Me: yes but-
> 
> Jaskier: it is not fun when people are hitting me! Make it stop!
> 
> Me: ... you're a spy and you got caught, you do realize that right?
> 
> Jaskier: yes, but they don't know that!
> 
> Me: ... that's not how this works. At all.
> 
> Jaskier: and I demand a wheel of cheese!
> 
> Me: I feel the sudden urge to hit you too now


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, that torture tag? The remainder of this fic is about to go full Event Horizon.

Jaskier stared up into the darkness, building the image of a ceiling where he could see none. He knew he wasn’t blind only because his eyes were not in pain. His leg hurt, his ribs hurt, his lungs hurt, his head hurt, but his eyes were remarkably unscathed. And he hoped they continued to remain that way after the next beating.

At least they had been given some stale bread and a few sips of water after the last one. More to keep them from dying that out of actual kindness he knew, but it was the actual food and water that counted more than any thought ever would.

The woman continued to remain stubbornly silent, though her dress was now half torn away. Jaskier envied her for her makeshift blankets. He was but a pauper steadily beginning to freeze in his dirty suit of clothes. But her silence grated on him, couldn’t she tell them anything, anything at all?

Anything to free them from this mindless, timeless torment of darkness and beatings and darkness again.

He also wished he knew her name so that he could curse her, beg the gods to divest upon her some untold anguish that would loosen her lips and have her spill their freedom with her secrets. 

He listened to the rasping wheeze of her sleep, her nose was broken and she had never set it properly, and wondered if it was night or day now. How long had it been since they had been dragged down here? Three days? Five? A week?

What was Lena doing, now that he had never returned? Because him not returning was certainly suspicious. Jaskier was one to let his eyes wander, but he liked to think he was trustworthy enough to understand the importance of returning with the information he had gathered. And he hoped that Lena knew that too.

But what could she do? She couldn’t very well ride down here and demand his freedom, he wouldn’t think that her explaining that he was a very bad spy would go down well. 

The woman’s breathing hitched and Jaskier turned toward her. She was crying again. He couldn’t hear it, but he could smell the tears. Salt in this barren room stood out so strongly. Though the smell of piss and shit was quickly becoming the more prevalent odor. How he wished their guards would at least give them a bucket.

“At least give me your name,” Jaskier said, his voice hoarse.

Screaming was hell on the vocal cords. He would need tea and honey for a month to even dream of recovering, and he certainly wouldn’t be traveling as a bard this spring. No one wanted to pay a bard with the crackling groan of a broken voice.

She remained silent, snuffling in the darkness, and Jaskier sighed, rolling to go back to staring at the ceiling. He never imaged how much he would miss the sight of anything but darkness. Anything but darkness, this room, and his own blood that was. He was not fond of his blood setting new dyes in his clothes.

“Zofia,” she said, her voice a strained whisper.

Jaskier wanted to comment that it was a horrid name for a horrid woman, to spit out vile things and blame her for them. But, in the end, he remained silent. She was a beautiful woman who had been forward to him at a party. He had followed. He could have taken her back to his rooms, or had her against the wall in some unknown little alcove. He hadn’t needed to follow her through the winding corridors until they were in the emperor’s chambers.

He was as much to blame for being there as she was. And he was a spy as well. Had they captured him, had Duny recognized him, he would have been the reason they were chained in this room instead. She would be the one bearing the brunt of their brutality instead of him.

But he was tired, and hungry, and thirsty, and in pain. And he just wanted to blame someone for all the times he had been beaten, and all the times that he would be beaten. Because they would not stop until she talked, and he could not see that happening.

The door opened and Jaskier kept his eyes closed against the light. 

There were four guards today, and two of them were hauling in a brazier. Jaskier very much doubted that they had suddenly discovered how miserable the dark was and were now going to give them light to keep them company, or fire to provide them warmth. 

No, going by the sheer terror that shone in Zofia’s eyes, Jaskier realized that he may very well never walk out of this room. This little bit of stone hidden away in the countryside may be his crypt. He should have listened to his older sisters and kept himself out of trouble.

The guards lit a fire in the brazier, and one of them started putting things in it. Long metal rods.

Zofia was crying again, pulling away from the fire, yanking uselessly at her chains. All the while the guards, still silent, were busy with the fire. Jaskier began to move away from the fire as well. It was useless he knew, he was still chained to the wall, but it was the only thing he could think to do.

It was the only thing he could do, realistically. He wasn’t about to be able to knock out four guards, break his chains, and make any sort of daring escape. The throbbing in his leg assured him of that.

One of the guards carefully removed a set of pliers from the fire and turned toward Zofia.

“Will you speak? Tell us where your friends are, and what they are planning?”

Zofia just stared at the pliers, her eyes wide, but remained silent. Jaskier swallowed and watched in horror as two more guards held her down, and the first guard grabbed her right thumbnail with the pliers and began to remove it slowly.

“Will you speak?” the guard asked again, and Zofia began to scream.

She screamed as they ripped her thumbnail, index, and middle finger nails. By the time the guard reached the ring finger she was panting and silent, but the smell of burning flesh remained in the air. The fourth guard came forward, holding a steaming mug in gloved hands, and the first guard nodded.

The first guard removed her pinky nail and grabbed her blood drenched hand and forced it into the mug. Zofia began to struggle and howl, thrashing wildly as the first guard grinned, turning toward Jaskier. Jaskier swallowed, remember the man’s words when this had all begun.

For every pain she felt Jaskier would feel twice as much. 

He shoved his hands behind his back uselessly, preparing to struggle. His hands, they couldn’t take his precious hands from him. He would rather die than never be able to hold of play a lute again. Would rather have his tongue torn from his lips and left blind.

One of the guards went to the fire and grabbed one of the spikes with a set of tongs and turned toward him. The spike glowed red and Jaskier strained at the chains to get away. He didn’t want that near him, he didn’t want it _in_ him!

“Will you speak,” the first guard asked a whimpering Zofia.

Zofia sobbed, but did not speak.

“Please,” Jaskier begged. “Please!”

Two guards held him down as the third pressed the tip of the spike against his thigh and began to pound it with a hammer. Jaskier screamed, his voice shattering through his mind and into the darkness that was swiftly growing over his eyes.

The pain. He couldn’t escape the pain. Every moment more a new agony as the spike was driven deeper, ripping through flesh and muscle and burrowing through bone. His blood sang in agony, boiling against the heat of the red fury as it continued deeper and deeper.

Jaskier was grateful when the darkness took him, letting his leg jerk and shake under the guards’ ministrations without him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: sooooo, that was more than mildly unpleasant
> 
> Me: at least you weren't sworded
> 
> Jaskier: you hammered a heated iron spike into my leg!
> 
> Me: but technically it's not a sword
> 
> Jaskier: a heated iron spike is worse than a sword!
> 
> Me: you know, if you work yourself into a tizzy over this, you'll have nothing left for the other chapters
> 
> Jaskier: I don't want heated iron spikes in other chapters!
> 
> Me: ... well you're just shit out of luck
> 
> *Jaskier screams into pillow*


	8. Chapter 8

Jaskier had lost track of time. He kept track now of pain. Of new spikes protruding from his flesh, and the waning whimpers from Zofia. She didn’t speak to him in the darkness anymore, no more muffled apologies. Just the gasping wheeze of her breathing, and the occasional wet sound of her blood when the guards left.

They were both dressed in red now. His clothing half burned and torn away, hers in a similar shape. They liked to burn her with the iron spike before they drove them into his body. The first guard, the sadistic one, thrived on it.

Two of the guards changed often enough that Jaskier was sure that coming here was punishment.

But, through it all, Zofia never talked. No matter how they burned her nor how piteously he pleaded, she remained steadfast in her determination. And Jaskier cursed her for every moment of it. It felt like years had passed, there was no way she knew anything that could give her friends away any longer. They would have shifted camps and targets long before now.

But the fact that the guards continued to torture them for information meant that the fighting still continued. There was still hope for those that resisted the strangling grip of Nilfgaard. It was just them that were doomed. There was no way to escape, he could barely breath through the pain most days.

He could feel the iron seeping into hid blood, poisoning him from the inside out. He longed for the salty sea waves of his home, and the singing of his mother and sisters as they played by the ocean. The water, fresh and salty and clean. He would do anything to see it, to bathe in it, one last time, and wash the pain and gore from his skin.

Zofia’s wheezing breath hitched and Jaskier knew she had come awake. He nearly pitied her for that, to be unconscious as much as possible was his dream now. But she was awake, and he had five iron spikes in his left leg and three more through his right, and the guard had laughed about putting them through his arms the next time they came. 

Jaskier wasn’t sure if he could ever describe the burning anger that he felt toward her.

The same burning that lit through his body, throbbing with the pain of iron. Poison, trickling through his veins with each pulse of his heart, and he could do nothing to escape it.

Jaskier didn’t want to die skewered like a fish, bleeding and thrashing helplessly as others watched on with glee. And he could think of nothing the guards could do to him in punishment that wasn’t already a part of their plans. He just wanted the unending agony to stop.

Jaskier grasped at the spike protruding from his right thigh and began to pull. The bone grated against it and he could feel blood beginning to pour from the wound, but he didn’t care. Zofia was never going to talk, they were never going to escape. At least he could die fighting back.

“Please don’t,” Zofia mumbled from the other side of the room, her voice a pained rasp. “Don’t leave me alone here.”

Ah, she could smell the blood and thought he was trying to kill himself. It would be another plan if things got worse. And they would get worse. They could only get worse. 

Jaskier ignored her and continued to pull at the spike, his hands burning and slipping from the blood. He could feel each movement as a moment in a twisted clock that would never stop ticking. The iron spike twisted out, another moment passed. Again and again and again, and Jaskier found himself panting and light headed, leaning against the wall and still pulling weakly at the spike.

His entire focus dwindled down to that single fact: the iron spike needed to be removed.

With a final squelch it clattered to the floor with a deafening, solid thud, and Jaskier cried in relief. It was one less, only one less, but it could be done. He could still defy his captors, still spit in their eye even as he lay there, too tired to even even lift his head.

He could hear Zofia crying again.

“Still alive,” Jaskier muttered.

He didn’t hear her answer as he slipped into the darkness of a dreamless sleep.

* * *

The light from the guards didn’t wake him when they next returned. His eyes didn’t blink open, his mind confused, until one of them grabbed him and shook. 

“Thought you were dead, little elf,” the guard sneered.

“Not an elf,” Jaskier moaned, crumpling as he was tossed back to the floor.

“Too tall to be a dwarf, you one of those half breeds? Didn’t think the Squirrels took you lot,” the guard sneered.

“Not a Squirrel,” Jaskier insisted weakly, laying on the floor and staring up at him. 

He had had the argument so many times, he couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t listen. He wasn’t one of the Squirrels. He didn’t know Zofia was a spy. He didn’t know anything.

“Let’s see if you’ll talk once the pretty little thing starts singing today,” the guard grinned, and Jaskier watched from the floor as they took one of the spikes and began pounding it into her left arm.

Zofia howled, thrashing helplessly against the two guards holding her down, blood and flesh sizzling as they quenched the red hot iron. Zofia’s voice cracked into a thousand pieces, only muted moans remaining as blood welled up and dripped from her mouth, and Jaskier could do nothing but watch.

He knew the pain, knew the horror of it, and knew that it would be worse for him. It was always worse for him. And now Zofia, panting and moaning and lying there on the brown stained stones, her eyes rolling up in her head, could say nothing at all.

“You’re a mite stronger than your friend,” the guard with the hammer said, standing up and kicking Zofia in the side. 

Jaskier could hear the tell tale crack of bone and winced. When Zofia woke next she would not enjoy it. If she woke next. He hoped she never did. He hoped that she escaped this world of pain she had trapped the both of them in.

The guards, for once, didn’t come to him next. They just left, the brazier burning down back into the comforting cold of the winter darkness as he watched Zofia laying there, bloody and unconscious, her chest rising and falling with each strangled breath.

She wasn’t going to make it, he realized. She was going to leave him alone here, knowing nothing but a single name and the fact that Redania was determined to resist. Nothing of importance, nothing that would keep them from hammering more iron into his body until he, too, wilted and burned away.

Jaskier leaned over, taking hold of another iron spike, and began to pull.

He may die here, that was the reality, but he didn’t have to accept it. He could fight against it. He could try to escape. He needed to escape. He knew who the emperor was. He knew how important that was.

He needed to get word to Geralt that his little child surprise had more destiny than he was sure even the stoic witcher could handle.

But first, he needed to be able to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: people are driving iron spikes into my legs!!!!
> 
> Me: I think you dropped this
> 
> *hands Jaskier a few more exclamation points*
> 
> Jaskier: I am not amused being skewered like a hedgehog!
> 
> Me: but it's kinda fitting, really
> 
> Jaskier: how in all that is anything is that fitting!?
> 
> Me: Duny was the hedgehog knight, and he was all pokey and spiny
> 
> Jaskier: oh... yeah, that does make a certain amount of sense
> 
> *Me nods*
> 
> Jaskier: but it's still not fucking funny
> 
> Me: still haven't added a comedy tag, so I don't think it was intended to be
> 
> Me: but think of it this way, at least it still isn't swords
> 
> *Jaskier hurls heavy objects in my general direction*


	9. Chapter 9

Zofia woke screaming some time after Jaskier had managed to remove a third iron rod. He had them carefully wrapped in the remains of some of his pants, bloody and horrible and so very precious. He hadn’t thought of it before then, but they were weapons. Sharp and heavy, not as elegant as a rapier but enough to escape with.

And that’s all he needed.

As soon as he could figure out how to escape from his shackles as well.

He lay there in the darkness, his leg throbbing, and listened to Zofia’s panicked, gaspy screams. He didn’t know how long it had been, just that he was parched. He had stopped being hungry after they had hammered the first iron spike into his leg.

Apparently his appetite did not agree with the torture. It would do wonders for his form once he escaped, he reassured himself. Scars and a waspish waist, the women would be all over him for tales of his heroics. He just had to leave out the parts about agony, and freezing in pools of your own dried blood, when he sang the tales.

The details of actual torture were never really well received. Just the thought that it had been bad and there had been an escape.

Zofia’s sobs were softening to whimpers now, and Jaskier wondered what she was that caused the iron to burn so much worse to her than it did him. Not an elf, she hadn’t the ears for it, and a half elf certainly wouldn’t have reacted as poorly.

Iron sounded against stone and Zofia let out a short, broken scream. She must have shifted, probably trying to sit up. It was difficult enough with them in his leg, he couldn’t imagine one in his arm. And her broken ribs must be doing her no favors at all.

Jaskier gently felt out the shackle on his left wrist, letting his fingers gently explore the metal. Solid work, more brute than elegant, but a shackle. A painful, chafing, miserable thing that was leaving his wrists feeling like torn meat, and he could only imagine the blood. All the care in the world wouldn’t rid him of these scars.

The lock was a solid mound, but simple. Jaskier grinned, taking one of the spikes he had pulled from his leg and easing it into the lock, listening carefully for the door. He doubted the guards would take him trying to escape very well, and he really, really didn’t want any more spikes in his body.

The spike jammed into the lock uselessly and Jaskier could have wept. He needed the damn thing at an angle, it was no good to him like this. He took the iron and slammed it against the ground weakly. Again and again and again, but nothing came of it. It wouldn’t bend, not this easily.

But the brazier. Hot metal bent, he had seen smiths do it all the time when he followed Geralt when he had things repaired. He didn’t have a hammer, the guards were always careful to take theirs with them, but he had stone. He had stone and he had himself, and he was more than stubborn enough to make a crude reshaping of an iron spike. 

He had to be, he needed to get to Geralt and warn him. Warn him about what was chasing after him. 

“How thick is the iron in your arm,” Jaskier asked, looking toward where Zofia should be laying.

Zofia’s sobbing hitched for a moment, but she didn’t speak. Jaskier wanted to walk over there and shake her, laying there and sobbing wasn’t going to help them escape! He knew the pain was bad, he had felt it much more than her, but he needed her now. A thinner rod would be easier to heat and bend, and the faster they escaped the better.

This little stone room had become his life, the outside world a faded dream before he was miserably birthed into the world. And he wanted to end the nightmare, and eat cheese, and drink wine, and whore his way through Oxenfurt. But he couldn’t do that until he bent something into shape that was strong enough to pick the lock.

“Dammit, Zofia, how thick is the iron?”

Zofia continued to snuffle, but he could hear a faint whisper.

“I can’t hear you, speak louder.”

“First finger knuckle,” Zofia’s voice came again.

That was no good then, that was thicker than the ones he had removed from his leg. Her arm must be in tatters, the bone completely shattered, if that was the case. At least his legs had the muscle of twenty years of roving the countryside to protect him. 

“If the next one is half the size, tell me. I can use it to get out of here,” Jaskier said into the darkness, curling up on the ground and carefully pulling his legs up.

The cold was a never ending ache now, but at least it helped numb the pain. His only care was to keep his fingers safe. He could lose some toes and simply stuff his boots, but there was no replacing his precious fingers.

“How,” Zofia asked, bringing Jaskier back to full wakefulness.

“You’ll pull it out and I’ll bend it. The locks should be easy after that.”

“I can’t pull it out,” Zofia whimpered.

“Yes you can, you’re strong enough to survive this long. I’ve pulled out three already,” Jaskier insisted. 

She had to be strong enough. She was strong enough to never speak to the guards, strong enough to keep her secrets. Strong enough to howl in agony, to sit there and watch him be tortured, but never break. She could sob in the darkness, but she was strong enough.

She had to be. He couldn’t carry her out of here, he doubted he would be able to walk himself if he did manage to pick the locks. He needed her.

“I’ll try,” she whimpered, and then screamed.

The solid thunk of her body hitting the floor confirmed that she had passed out again. Jaskier just shivered, and hoped that the guards decided to hammer a nail into him instead the next time they came. Leaving full skins of water and a bag of food would also be useful, he thought to himself as he made hopeless wishes.

He let the darkness slip by until he realized he had no idea if he could reach the brazier even if he wanted to. He had always sought to escape it before, escape where the red hot spikes of agony came from, but it could be out of reach. Maybe, just maybe, he could reach it with ease.

He struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on the wall, and tried to take a step forward. His left leg collapsed beneath him and Jaskier bit his tongue to stifle his agony. The iron in his leg burned, and he could almost feel the flesh and bone searing away as if it was a new injury once more.

But he could do this. He was the great Jaskier, celebrated bard of all the lands. He could stand up and walk a few simple steps to a damn fire!

Jaskier stood once again, bracing against the wall, and took a careful step. It was torture, and his head swam worryingly, but he managed. He took a second step, still leaning against the wall, he needed to practice walking first, and a third. His leg collapsed beneath him after the second step, and Jaskier was left panting in sweaty agony on the floor.

He laughed, his lungs heaving. He felt like a baby having to relearn how to walk, how to stiffen himself against the pain, but he could do it. He was better than everything they could dream of doing to him, he would survive this and escape.

A few more days of practice, the luck of an iron nail, and the hope that he could reach the brazier. That’s all he needed. Simple things, really. He would manage.

He had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jaskier stares at the chapter*
> 
> Jaskier: there is something deeply, deeply wrong with you
> 
> Me: whatever makes you say that?
> 
> *Jaskier gestures wildly at the chapter*
> 
> Jaskier: that is a pretty good indication!
> 
> Me: hey, you didn't get stabbed once this time!
> 
> Jaskier: there are spikes in my leg!
> 
> Me: but no more got added
> 
> Jaskier: spikes in people is bad!
> 
> Me: which is the point of torture
> 
> Jaskier: Gah!
> 
> *Jaskier chases Me and tries to suffocate Me with a pillow*


	10. Chapter 10

The darkness and pain were broken only by Zofia’s screams as the guards hammered another spike into her arm. The mangled limb hung limply when the guards weren’t holding it out, and Jaskier knew, just as she surely must, that it would never serve her again. It would be better to take it off completely rather than let them use it to torture her.

She didn’t even struggle anymore, she just lay there, screaming, her eyes rolling up and the agony washed over her. She was broken, Jaskier could tell. Broken and all but dead. He doubted she could speak even if she wanted to.

“Your little whore isn’t nearly as much fun to play with anymore,” the first guard said with a sigh, stepping back from the now unconscious woman.

Jaskier didn’t say anything, merely watching carefully as one of the other guards pulled another spike from the fire.

“But surely you must have some lovely secrets to sing,” the guard smiled. “Tell of Redania, forgotten little lord. Tell us everything of your kingdom.”

The first guard stood there for a moment, looking between Jaskier and the unconscious Zofia and the quickly cooling spike. Then he shook his head and motioned for the small bag the other guard had on his belt.

Jaskier bit back a prayer as the man pulled iron nails from the bag. 

“You have such delicate hands, so beautiful,” the guard said, crouching down and caressing the dirty fingers of Jaskier’s right hand. “There’s this wonderful trick my grandmother taught me when I was young. You take an animal by the wrist, and you can pull the tendons to make the fingers dance as you will.”

The guard took one of the nails and slid it into Jaskier’s wrist, twisting it and watching Jaskier’s fingers spasm. Jaskier sobbed in horror, not his hand, his precious fingers. He needed them. His music, what would he be without his music?

“Do you have anything to say,” the guard asked, still grinning and lightly twitching the nail embedded in Jaskier’s wrist.

“I didn’t even know her name,” Jaskier cried. “She was just a quick fuck!”

The guard tisked, ramming the nail straight down through his wrist and stood, ignoring Jaskier as clutched his hand tight, blood dripping onto the floor below. Jaskier tried not to scream, tried to reassure himself that he just had to get through the next moment, and the one after that. But he had a nail now, that was what was most important.

He needed the nail to live.

The smell of burning flesh brought him back, and he watched in horror as the guards held red hot iron against Zofia and she didn’t move. The poked and prodded hurt with the burning spikes, one guard poking at her eye and Jaskier gagged as he could hear the thing pop inside her head, mucus beginning to drain down her face. But she never moved, no matter how they beat or burned or stabbed her.

“Damn, I’d hoped she’d last the summer,” the first guard growled.

The summer, Jaskier thought as he realized that Zofia was dead, had died in agony as they had jammed yet another piece of metal into her body. Had they truly been here so long? It was impossible to keep track of time in the darkness, everything sinking together into only time when people were causing him pain and time when he was suffering afterward.

It couldn’t be summer, the frigid bite of winter leeched into his bones wherever he lay. The cold sinking in and numbing him to every breath of agony. Were they so deeply underground that only winter was left? Had the snows fallen and thawed again, and left the world a green he could scarcely remember?

One of the guards spat on her as they turned to leave, her body sprawled out with cooling spikes of iron jutting from her chest and torso.

“If you’re hungry, I’m sure you can reach her if you try a little,” the first guard said, closing and locking the door behind him.

Jaskier felt sick at the thought. He would have been sick, he was sure, if he had anything left to be sick with. If it was summer, they couldn’t have been feeding them everyday. Every other day maybe, or less. It would be easy for him to slip away, he didn’t have anything left on him but skin stretched over bone.

Jaskier closed his eyes and said a silent prayer, and then pulled the nail from his wrist. Testing his fingers carefully he was relieved that they all still worked. He was in pain, but he had been in pain for so very, very long. He could work through the pain, he needed to bend the nail now.

With trembling strength he stood, limping toward the brazier and straining against his chains. He was just barely able to reach it, and place the nail in the dwindling fire. He wasn’t sure if it would be enough, but he had to try. Anything to escape before he became another forgotten corpse down here.

The nail never glowed, but it was warm enough to burn as the fire faded, and Jaskier took his chance, jamming it into a small hole between the stones that he had hollowed with a larger spike, and then he used his weight. The nail bent, more a curve than the sharp turn he wanted, but it was enough.

It was enough to twist in the locks and spring him free.

Jaskier sat there, nearly sobbing with relief as he carefully placed the shackles on the floor. He was free. True, he had enough iron jammed into his leg to forge a kitchen of pots and pans, but he was free. Once the door was open he could escape.

He would see the sky again. Breath fresh air and bask in the sun’s warmth. He could take a bath, and eat a meal, and not be here ever again. He had never longed for Lettenhove, the tiny coastal town he had escaped as a bored child, so much in his life. The longing to see home, and his family, throbbed within him.

He stood, bracing against the wall, nail in one hand and iron spike in the other, and limped toward the door. It was locked, shut firmly, solid in craft. No way to access the lock from the inside, no hinges to twist free. He was trapped.

Jaskier did cry then, crouching and sobbing as his dreams of the ocean shattered around him. There was nothing left. No way to escape, no way to sneak away in the darkness. They would kill him too when they saw him free.

Think, Jaskier told himself, staring down at the nail and spike as the fire flickered.

He turned toward the brazier. True, it was going out, and it was heavy. But all it would take was a shove. And the door opened outward, it would be easier for him to go out that it would be for them to close it. He just needed to drag it to the door and wait. 

It could work. It probably wouldn’t, even in the best shape of his life he had never been a fighter, content to strum on his lute as Geralt stepped in and handled the more brutish parts of the job. But Geralt wasn’t here, and Geralt wasn’t coming, and he had to escape on his own.

Jaskier limped toward the brazier and began to carefully drag it toward the door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jaskier vomits into bucket*
> 
> Jaskier: that was remarkably unpleasant
> 
> Me: yeah... sorry about that. But don't worry, it's almost over
> 
> Jaskier: Geralt will save me now?
> 
> Me: ... no. You get to save yourself!
> 
> Jaskier, completely deadpan: I am completely overjoyed with excitement. Yay.


	11. Chapter 11

The soft, distant sound of footsteps outside the door roused Jaskier from his nervous half sleep. He had tried meditating like he had watched Geralt do when he kept watch in the night, but he was too exhausted and in pain to continue for long. He would have to have the other man teach it to him if they ever met up again.

And he wanted to see Geralt, at least one last time, to warn him. It was important. But his heart sang for home, and he couldn’t deny the song any longer. It was the only thing keeping him sane, that haunting lullaby his mother had always sang that sounded of wind and waves and the slow, worn down rocks by the sea.

He felt like one of those rocks now, trying to stand against the inevitable and failing. 

But he was stubborn. His mother had always laughed and told him how stubborn he was, stubborn enough to be born her only son, stubborn enough to choose music over the aristocracy.

Stubborn enough to run away and enjoy life until the bars came crashing down and he found himself here, crouched, shivering, behind a locked door and preparing to kill men to escape. Because he would kill them, especially the first guard that took such pleasure in his screams, and had continued on until Zofia had finally escaped into death.

The steps continued toward the door, and Jaskier legs shook as he remained braced against the sturdy pole of the cold brazier, readying himself. He wouldn’t have much time, just a few moments to catch them off guard, but the brazier should at least keep the door open. They wouldn’t have a chance to slam it shut and lock him in until he wasted away. He would rather die fighting.

The door opened and he shoved the brazier forward, he had no hope of controlling anything but where it fell. The first guard let out a shout of surprise, and then Jaskier was on him, iron spikes in his hand. 

They had stabbed him, now he would return the favor.

He shoved the spike in the eye of the first guard, that same guard that had led the brutality he was happy to see, and turned, ignoring the screaming agony of his leg and the pull and exhaustion of his limbs, and stabbed toward the second. He had intended to go for the eye again, blind was faster than bleeding out, but managed to hit the man in the throat. Blood gushed and he gurgled and collapsed, clawing at the wound as a puddle began to form below.

Jaskier didn’t have time to stare, there were two more guards. One had drawn his sword, but the other, a young man that looked like a child in poorly fitted uniform, was staring and backing away. The one with the sword first, Jaskier threw himself at him, not caring where the sword blows would land, lashing out with his own iron.

A blow bit into his side, but his spike crashed into the man’s cheek, and Jaskier put his strength behind the spike and took them both to the ground. The clang of iron on the stone below was enough, though the man was still howling and writhing, clawing at Jaskier madly.

Jaskier stepped away, his left leg nearly collapsing beneath him, and drove the final spike up into the final guard’s throat. The boy stared up at him, mouthing silently as he collapsed against the wall and left a bloody streak as he slipped down it. Jaskier pulled the spike out and limped away from the blood.

Two of the guards were dead, one more dying and the final one half blinded and still struggling on the ground. Jaskier stepped over to him, spiked in hand, and thrust down, ripping out his throat. He had wondered if he would say words if he had killed the man, but now he knew it was useless.

That man that had tortured him for months on end didn’t deserve his words. He knew what he had done to them and he had taken pleasure from it. The best revenge that Jaskier could think of was to escape. And now he could.

He limped down the hall, his leg still screaming as he tried to be quiet. It wasn’t hard on bare feet, but the bloody footprints he had left were certainly alarming. He needed to be faster about this, he needed to get out into the open and get into the forest.

Once in the forest he could at least be safe from surprise guards and other people.

He should grab supplies, he thought as he glanced around a corner, but he couldn’t. He didn’t have time. He needed to escape. He had been traveling through the wilderness for years, he could scavenge as he ran. 

Stairs. He sighed in relief as he began to drag himself upward, the chilly air warming as he went. How deep had they been? Not that deep, just a cellar. But feeling warmth after so long was a relief. And still the stairs kept going, mountain upon mountain of agony, his legs screaming, his breath coming in pants. He wasn’t used to this anymore.

He paused for a moment, resting against the wall but refusing to let himself slide down. If he sat down now, he would never stand again he was sure. He needed to keep going, to escape. Then food and water. Then to the coast.

He needed to get home. 

The stairs ended at the ground level, windows full of the last rays of the dying sun, and Jaskier shielded his eyes against the light. He had never seen anything so beautiful in his life than the sun through the thick, wavy glass. It felt like a lifetime, and he wanted to collapse to his knees and bask in it.

A startled gasp and shriek interrupted his wonder, and he turned in surprise to see a maid. She was pale, her eyes wide as she stared at him, and then turned and ran, shrieking as she went.

“Monster, monster!”

Jaskier looked down at himself and realized with a laugh that he did, indeed, look quite monstrous. He doubted even Geralt would have been able to recognize him as a human after all this time. Iron spikes from his leg, bones jutting from under papery skin, a wash of fresh and dying blood. His hair and beard were a frazzled mess. He was half smeared with shit and piss as well.

Yes, yes he was a monster now. But that could work to his advantage. A monster would be easier to slip away into the forest than a man. How long until others discovered the massacre he had left before his cell door? 

Jaskier began trying to run, steadying himself against walls as he looked for an exit from this hell. Anything, any door, would be fine. He was too weak to break the windows, he lamented, but at least there were windows there. Windows meant the wall was an outer one, and where there were outer walls there were doors.

He grabbed a vase of flowers, throwing the blossoms to the ground as he gulped greedily at the water. The vase fell with a crash as he continued on, not caring. But the water helped. It gave him a little energy that his waning limbs needed.

A door, he limped forward in relief, opening it with trembling hands and nearly collapsing out into the well manicured gardens that fronted the house. The world was a sea of green dotted with bold smears of flowers. He limped out onto the gravel, ignoring the pain, and took in a breath.

Life, he could smell life. For the first time in so long, he was alive, and the world was alive around him.

Jaskier never even glanced back as he dragged himself toward the forest and toward home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: well, that was rather...
> 
> Me: necessary?
> 
> Jaskier: I was going to go with brutal. Or bloody. Or drastic.
> 
> Me: hey, gotta escape somehow
> 
> Jaskier: I feel like an awesome ninja now, wielding iron spikes with deadly precision!
> 
> Me: ... with a leg full of iron spikes, limping bloodily into the forest
> 
> Jaskier: shush you, you're ruining my ninja fantasies
> 
> *Jaskier continues to make ninja sounds while jumping off the couch*


End file.
